


Delight and Deliverance

by primeideal



Category: Original Work
Genre: Dressing Someone Up To Die, Extra Treat, F/F, Gratuitous Biblical References, Religious Imagery & Symbolism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-28
Updated: 2020-09-28
Packaged: 2021-03-06 23:47:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,280
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26087419
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/primeideal/pseuds/primeideal
Summary: Indeed, I was a sinner from my mother’s blood-pain-creation-sphere. Clean me with your wall-growing plant.
Relationships: Spirit of Saint/Teenage Virgin Novice
Comments: 8
Kudos: 6
Collections: Darkest Night 2020





	Delight and Deliverance

**Author's Note:**

  * For [reine_des_corbeaux](https://archiveofourown.org/users/reine_des_corbeaux/gifts).



When Margaret died—the first time—the service was well-attended. Breckhull had never had an anchorite, and many townspeople had contributed in rebuilding what had once been the small sacristy adjoining the sanctuary. That work complete, they gaped at the bishop’s fine robes as he blessed the cell and the work of Father Edmund, Miss Hannah and Miss Elisabeth’s duties, the gardens outside, and the little Psalter that Margaret clutched. They chanted the funeral laments as she walked through the rough-hewn door. The bishop crossed it behind her, and then it was shut.

She was home.

Becoming an anchorite required many sacrifices, not only from her. Miss Hannah and Miss Elisabeth would be busy bringing her food and water, and replacing her chamber pot, through the little side door. Father Edmund would have to see to her in his rounds. But no matter how many times she struggled to articulate it, her sisters and neighbors could not understand that forswearing the temptations of men was no virtue, that avoiding the heat of the sun and the clamor of the street was a refuge rather than merely a punishment. It was not an easy life she had chosen for herself, but neither was the one she had left behind.

Nor would she be completely alone in her cell. Father Edmund brought her the host, Hannah and Elisabeth tended to her, even the women of Breckhull asked her counsel. And of course, her prayers kept her in communion with the saints of all times and places.

She did not expect that phrase to be quite so literal.

* * *

There were no likenesses of Saint Mechthild, at least not that had made their way to Breckhull. If she was illuminated by a monk, it was a simple face with a tongue of fire, contemplating the names of things as Adam had once given names to every living creatures.

So when the vision appeared within Margaret’s cell, she was too astonished to speak. She knelt, dumbly, until the saint called out to her in the common tongue. “Rise up, Margaret. For today I would gift you with my words.”

“Who are you,” asked Margaret, “to speak this way?”

“Since my birth in heaven some have called me Mechthild the Scribe, but when I lived I was known as Mechthild of Trigren.”

“If there is some judgment you must render upon me,” Margaret said, “I cannot but await it.” This was true both spiritually and physically; the door that had allowed her entry had not been built to reopen, and she would have had to fast for quite some time to exit by the window that Hannah and Elisabeth used.

“Only this,” said Mechthild. “On Earth I did not speak as the angels do, but rather made my own manner of writing and speech. Now only parchment remains of that time. I would have you as a pupil, to echo back the hymns I once chanted, that they may sound again in this place.”

“I am little more than a child, to receive so great an honor.”

“Think on it.” Mechthild gave a faint smile, and rather than dazzle in uncreated light, her features looked like a living woman’s. “I daresay you have much time to ponder such things.”

Was that a jibe at Margaret’s vocation? Not every woman, even those preferring the solitary life, had the desire to travel to a monastery and join a community of her fellows. But before she could consider it further, the saint had gone, and the spare cell seemed even darker than it had before.

* * *

“Father,” said Margaret, kneeling in front of the small window, “I have sinned.”

“Speak, child,” said Father Edmund, “that your heart may be created new. But do not torment your conscience by seeking sin when none has been done, for in such a way many good women and men have been the victims of false pride.”

“It is my pride I must confess,” said Margaret. “I have not contented myself with what is at hand, but in idleness dreamed of things beyond my station.” And she recounted how Mechthild had appeared to her.

Father Edmund considered this. “It is rare for such voices to be heard by those of your stature, but not unknown. What of Samuel in the temple?”

“What would you have me do?”

“Have some more of Miss Hannah’s stew,” said the priest, with a slight smile, “for no one who feeds on it can be transported far from what is near at hand. And I will pray for you, that the Spirit may help you discern the voice of truth.”

For a few weeks nothing out of the ordinary occurred, and Margaret considered whether the vision had been a warning to steady her against assuming that her world was bounded by four walls. Sometimes visitors would share with her their fears for a sickly grandchild, or that the Northmen might raid that far inland, and she endeavored to imagine their world even though she had turned away from it. God had not made her any greater than they, but set her apart so that they might both find their calling.

But then Mechthild reappeared, as suddenly as she had come before. For a moment she said nothing, searching the cell as if anything could be hidden amid its simplicity. Margaret was at prayer, and had not been burning a candle, but her Psalter seemed to burn like the sun when Mechthild took it into her hand. “Come and read with me,” she half-questioned, half-commanded.

Margaret gave a brief bow. “I was meditating on the Fifty-First Psalm,” she said. Let the vision see her as penitent, not aspiring to celestial company.

Mechthild recited it, but as she did, she repeated the words in her own cipher, elaborating on what they meant. _Indeed, I was a sinner from my mother’s blood-pain-creation-sphere. Clean me with your wall-growing plant. Let me hear of joy, for the songs of despair have crushed my bones. There is nothing I can sacrifice to you, not even the animals that have passed through fire._

“Well?” Mechthild said. “Do the words ring true?”

“I am no scholar,” Margaret protested. “I read the barest Latin, but your teaching is too great for me.”

“I was no different from you, once.”

“What does the Psalmist mean when he speaks of the sacrifice?”

“God has already given his son for us, has he not? We need not make pilgrimage to a distant temple to worship; all he asks is that we repent in our hearts.”

“‘We’?” Margaret echoed. “Surely you are now beyond all sin.”

“It may seem so. Yet where I breathe upon you, I touch the earth again, and can only hope that what I do works for good rather than ill.”

This unsettled Margaret, but only somewhat. If Mechthild’s intent was sinful—had she wished to plot a murder, or desecrate a relic, or plunder wealth that was not hers—even the most remote of heathens would be a more effective co-conspirator than a young woman who had sworn to remain in her cell.

* * *

“Greet one another,” Margaret translated, “with the kiss of peace.”

“No,” said Mechthild. “Peace is _chegtah_ , remember? ‘I come not to bring peace, but a sword.’”

“I don’t remember,” said Margaret. “You’re the one who created all of this. I don’t see why you need me.”

“Need?” The spirit seemed amused. “You speak wisely, for I have no need to converse with you. Is it so strange that one such as I should _choose_ to share my creation with you?”

“Why me? I have told you, I am but a—”

“The world is full of humankind, each who have sinned in their own way, each of whom must confront the weight of that sin in the fullness of time. Be not overproud in assuming theirs.”

“Then do not scold me like a mother, but tell me why you have chosen me rather than another.”

Mechthild gave a delighted, almost proud smile. “You might have grown old as the only woman in Breckhull who never asked that question.”

“I didn’t know you knew the name of my village,” Margaret said dryly.

“Is it yours?”

“Of course it’s mine. I’ve never travelled elsewhere, have I?”

“And do you live in it now? Oh, the women may seek you for counsel, but they also call upon Our Lady to intercede on their behalf, and she does not dwell among them. You have chosen the fellowship of the silent, and there you shall remain until we meet again in God’s kingdom.”

“I don’t feel particularly silent at the moment.”

“The epistle again,” Mechthild half-chided, half-teased.

“Greet one another with a holy kiss,” Margaret recited, but this time it was not just an echo but her own voice giving life to the commandment. And then Mechthild was a breath away, her face upon hers—

“Please,” Margaret interrupted. “If this is a temptation, I pray you, leave me, in the name—”

“You have sworn not to lie with a man, and I would not have you break your vows,” said Mechthild. “But even if my life were like yours, I could not get you with child, could I? You have nothing to fear from me.”

The word was near, at her lips and in her heart, and soon it seemed like Mechthild could touch both.

* * *

It was weeks before the bishop came, but Margaret felt sure he knew. Breckhull had not been great enough to warrant his attentions before her ceremony, and he had returned for the second time in less than a year? It could only be because of her.

“Father,” she began through Edmund’s window.

But he cut her off. “I know times are grave and you fear greatly. I would not issue such a dispensation lightly.”

“Your rulings are just. Tell me how I may be forgiven.”

“Forgiven?” he said. “I am here to bid you travel to the monastery at Widgewood.”

“That is absurd.” Who could he have confused her with? Maybe there was a lay sister somewhere else in the diocese.

“Has your priest not warned you?” He sounded concerned, in addition to disappointed in Father Edmund’s absentmindedness. “Northmen raiders, many more than before, have been making their way south. The villagers will be safer in one of the great cities. And as for you, you may follow your vocation with the sisters in Widgewood. The stone walls are sturdy.” He might have smiled, though it was hard to see through the window. “And I don’t suppose there’s anything there worth pillaging.”

“My vocation?” said Margaret.

“Solitude is an honorable calling, and the abbess knows that you will not be part of the common life.”

But she was not just an anchorite; she was Mechthild’s companion. Would the saint who had adored her in her cell, _because_ of her cell, care for her in a house where all other women were consecrated? _You have chosen the fellowship of the silent…_

She could not leave. Oh, Mechthild could find her anywhere—to her, all places and times were the same—but even if the bishop freed her of her vows, he could not change how she had been bound to the saint. “What of my maidservants?” she said. “Miss Hannah and Miss Elisabeth?”

“They are on their way to the city, with the others.”

So she would starve if she lingered long. Well, it was no doubt kinder than whatever the Northmen would do to little Breckhull. “Very well. If it please you, may I pass the night in prayer for this place? I need no horse nor cart to make my way to Wedgwood.”

The bishop was silent, and again Margaret found herself wondering how much he knew. But then he placed something where Father Edmund would have passed her the host. “There is a trefoil carved below this window. Use this key when you are ready to depart; there will be a few supplies in the front pew.”

“Thank you,” said Margaret fervently. How many secret doors had been carved as guard against such a terror? How many had been used?

“Godspeed,” said the bishop. But what speed God intended for her, neither of them could know.

* * *

When Mechthild returned, Margaret thought she might have imagined her in her faintness. But she was there, as real beneath her fingertips as Margaret herself—or maybe Margaret was already mostly spirit.

“Take up your armor,” Mechthild urged her. “The hour is at hand.”

“My armor?” Margaret said. “Would you have me fend off the Northmen with the chamber pot? Pungent it may be, but not that strong.”

“Your struggle is against the cosmic powers,” Mechthild quoted, and she imbued the translation with awe. “You need not wield a sword to withstand what comes.”

Gently, she helped Margaret replace the discarded layers. Garments about her waist, a fastened cloak, shoes that would not flee. “In your baptism,” she said, “you were drowned to sin and made alive with Christ. There is no power on earth that these waters cannot quench.” Margaret knelt in prayer, the work of reciting in Mechthild’s tongue enough of a distraction that she did not notice when the saint took her leave.

She did notice the smell of smoke, rising up like incense from the sanctuary. A spark of flame surged through the wall, then another, and in a moment the crude door that had swung but once was alight in the fire. The walls fell away and for an instant the world was once again open before her, and then the world too fell away and a familiar tongue sounded to greet her.

**Author's Note:**

> Mechthild is loosely based upon abbess and language creator [Hildegard of Bingen](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Hildegard_of_Bingen).


End file.
